15 July 1958
Aisha's Mansion
The room was quiet, filled only with the soft scratching of pen against paper.
Samuel leaned back into the sofa with a long exhale, stretching his arms above his head.
"Wooo… finally done," he said, his voice relaxed.
Across from him, James remained seated, still and silent.
There was something different about him.
Samuel had noticed it for days now—ever since the incident at school. The homicide had shut everything down, but it had done something else too.
It had changed James.
He spoke less.
Thought more.
And when he did speak… something felt off.
Unnatural.
Samuel shifted slightly, trying to ease the growing discomfort. Silence hung between them like a weight.
Then suddenly—
"Hey… uh, James," he said, forcing a casual tone. "Let's play chess."
James looked at him, almost blank.
"Chess?"
Samuel blinked. "Wait… don't tell me you don't know chess."
James tilted his head slightly, as if searching his memory.
"…Oh. You mean the black-and-white squares game."
Samuel let out a small laugh. "Yeah, that one. Wait here."
He stood up and left the room. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a wooden chessboard, placing it carefully on the table between them.
James looked at it quietly.
Samuel smiled. "Come on, you're smart. You'll probably become a grandmaster in no time."
James hesitated.
"…Actually, I struggle with it."
Samuel froze for a second.
"What? You're joking, right?"
James shook his head slowly.
"I used to play it… with someone. That's when I realized—it's not for me."
Samuel frowned, curiosity taking over.
"Not for you? Why?"
James's eyes lowered toward the board.
"The rules… don't match my style."
Samuel leaned forward.
"Your style? Explain."
A brief pause.
Then James spoke calmly.
"In chess, both players have sixteen pieces. Thirty-two in total. Sixty-four squares. The objective is simple—capture the opponent's pieces and checkmate the king."
Samuel nodded. "Exactly."
James's gaze sharpened slightly.
"But that's not how I play."
Samuel's brows furrowed.
"Then how do you play?"
James looked up.
"In my style… I don't destroy my opponent's pieces."
A pause.
"I place them in such a position… that they destroy each other."
Silence.
Samuel stared at him, unsure if he heard correctly.
"…What?"
James didn't react.
"But chess doesn't allow that," he continued calmly. "Its rules restrict such a strategy."
Samuel leaned back slightly, processing.
Then he asked carefully,
"Alright. Let's say you try that. While you're setting everything up… your opponent will attack you. That's inevitable. What then?"
James didn't hesitate.
"You're right."
He looked directly into Samuel's eyes.
"He will attack me. He will harm me… perhaps even destroy me."
A brief pause.
"But at the moment he believes he's about to win…"
James's voice lowered.
"…he will realize he was playing the wrong game."
Samuel's expression tightened.
James continued,
"He doesn't lose because I'm smarter."
Another pause.
"He loses because he never understood the rules."
The room fell silent again.
Then James added, almost absently—
"It's like a cook trying to defeat a lawyer… by cooking."
Samuel didn't respond.
He couldn't.
Because for the first time—
James didn't sound like a child.
---
1:33 PM
Oliver's room was suffocatingly focused.
A large board covered the wall, filled with notes, lines, names, and connections drawn in restless urgency. Papers were scattered across a table—documents, photographs, reports—each piece part of a puzzle that refused to settle.
Three chairs faced the board.
One stood slightly apart.
Oliver stood in front of it, completely absorbed, chalk in hand. His eyes moved rapidly, connecting patterns, rejecting them, rebuilding them again.
Something wasn't right.
He could feel it.
But he couldn't see it yet.
Then—
Ding.
The doorbell rang.
Oliver reacted instantly, almost as if he had been waiting for it.
He rushed to the door and opened it.
Mira stood there.
Beside her was a young man—around twenty-five, neatly dressed, black hair, clean-shaven. There was something composed about him, almost formal.
"Come in," Oliver said quickly.
They entered, and Oliver gestured toward the chairs.
As they sat, Oliver remained standing for a moment, then turned toward them.
"So… as you both know," he began, "we're here because of Tom."
Both Mira and the young man nodded.
"You don't know the full details yet," Oliver continued. "That's fine. We'll start from the beginning."
He paused briefly.
"First, introductions."
He pointed slightly toward himself.
"Oliver Shepherd."
Then he looked at Mira with a faint nod.
"We already know each other."
His gaze shifted to the young man.
"And you are—?"
The man straightened slightly.
"Jacob Bernard, sir," he said. "I'm… relatively new. But I know my work. I won't get in your way."
Mira let out a small giggle at his formality.
Jacob didn't react.
Oliver allowed himself a faint smile.
"That's good," he said. "Keep that energy."
Then his expression turned serious again.
"Now listen carefully."
Mira and Jacob leaned forward.
"Since yesterday, I've been gathering everything I can about this case," Oliver said. "And there are several things… that don't add up."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the board behind him.
"This isn't a normal case."
A pause.
"So I'm going to tell you everything."
Oliver stepped closer to the board, chalk still in his hand.
His eyes moved across the photographs, then toward Mira and Jacob.
"So… our killer," he began slowly, "let's call him Mr. X."
A brief pause.
"According to what I've gathered… Mr. X is not new."
Mira raised her hand slightly, frowning.
"What do you mean by that?"
Oliver turned his head toward her.
"I mean," he said calmly, "this isn't the first time he's committed a crime."
Mira leaned forward. "Then how do you know? And why are you so sure?"
Oliver gave a small nod.
"I'll explain everything. Just… listen carefully."
Jacob remained silent, his posture straight, eyes fixed on Oliver with full attention.
Oliver turned back to the board.
He lifted the chalk and pointed at the photographs pinned across it.
Four images.
Four dates written beside them.
2 July
6 July
12 July
14 July
The last one—Robert's.
"I've confirmed these four crimes," Oliver said, his voice steady. "All of them… connected to Mr. X."
He paused.
"Now tell me—why only these four?"
Silence.
Mira looked at the board, thinking, but said nothing.
Jacob didn't speak either.
Oliver gave a faint smile.
"Alright. I'll tell you."
He tapped the board lightly.
"All four of these cases… are already solved."
Both Mira and Jacob's eyes widened instantly.
Oliver continued.
"Let's go through them one by one."
He moved the chalk to the first photograph.
"First case. 2 July."
His tone shifted—more analytical now.
"An old man. Former World War soldier. Name—Heinrich."
A pause.
"Official conclusion—suicide."
He glanced at them briefly.
"And yes… he did take his own life."
Silence.
"But," Oliver added quietly, "he was forced to do it."
Mira's brows tightened.
"You mean—?"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Someone indirectly caused his death."
He stepped slightly closer to the board.
"I studied Heinrich's behavior in the days leading up to his suicide. There were no signs of depression. No visible despair."
He tapped the board again.
"He had lost his wife and daughter during the war… but recently, he was recovering. Healing."
Another pause.
"There was no suicide note."
The room grew quieter.
"And one more thing," Oliver added. "There was a child who used to visit him frequently."
He looked at them.
"His name… was Franzzle."
Jacob's expression sharpened slightly.
"Remember that name," Oliver said. "It appears again."
He shifted the chalk to the second photograph.
"Second case. 6 July."
"A twenty-one-year-old man. Name—Diable."
Jacob's eyes flickered in recognition.
"Yes," Oliver nodded. "The same Diable case. The one I was working on."
He paused.
"Murder. Gunshot."
Oliver drew a small line between the first and second photos.
"Diable was Heinrich's neighbor."
Another pause.
"And he had been living with a child for the past two years."
Mira slowly exhaled.
"…Franzzle."
Oliver nodded.
"After these two incidents… the child disappeared."
He turned slightly toward them.
"No records. No background. No identity."
A brief silence followed.
"It's as if he never existed."
Jacob's expression grew more serious now.
Oliver moved the chalk to the third photograph.
"Third case. 12 July."
His tone shifted again—more focused.
"A bullied child kills three of his bullies."
He paused.
"On the surface, nothing unusual. It looks like a typical reaction—violence born from prolonged abuse."
He looked at them both.
"I almost ignored it."
Then—
"But the name of the child…"
He let the silence stretch.
"…was Franzzle."
Mira leaned back slightly, stunned.
"I know what you're thinking," Oliver said calmly. "But no—this child is not Mr. X."
A pause.
"But Mr. X caused it."
He turned toward the board again, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"It's almost like… he was mocking us."
The air in the room grew heavier.
Oliver finally pointed at the last photograph.
"Fourth case. 14 July."
Robert.
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't need to.
Silence settled for a moment before Oliver stepped back slightly, lowering the chalk.
"With these four cases… we can start to understand something about Mr. X."
He turned toward Mira and Jacob.
"Tell me," he said suddenly, "who do you think is the most intelligent man?"
Mira answered first.
"Nikola Tesla."
Jacob followed.
"Niccolò Machiavelli."
Oliver gave a faint, almost dismissive smile.
"I won't argue with either of those names," he said.
Then his expression darkened.
"But Mr. X…"
A pause.
"…is far more intelligent than anyone you have ever seen."
Silence.
Oliver walked slowly in front of the board.
"If we study his pattern…"
He spoke carefully now.
"He is patient."
"He acts with purpose."
"He doesn't kill randomly—every action has a reason."
A brief pause.
"Even if we don't understand that reason yet… it exists."
He looked back at the photographs.
"He erases his presence completely."
His grip tightened slightly around the chalk.
"He makes almost no mistakes."
Then—
He stopped.
"…And yet…"
A small pause.
"In these cases… there are traces."
He looked at them again.
"But even now, I can't say for certain that Mr. X exists."
Mira frowned slightly.
"Then why—?"
"Because everything fits," Oliver interrupted quietly.
He turned toward the board one last time.
"The patterns… the connections…"
A pause.
"They shouldn't align like this."
His voice dropped.
"And yet they do."
Silence.
Oliver's eyes remained fixed on the board.
"…It feels like…"
A slight breath.
"…he is inevitable."
Oliver exhaled slowly, then continued,
"Well… to put it simply—he is ahead of us. Not just ahead… but beyond us, in pure intellect."
The room fell silent.
Mira and Jacob weren't shocked—not exactly. But something far heavier settled inside them. It wasn't fear alone. It was something deeper… something undefined. As if they had just stepped into a space where logic itself began to feel unreliable.
Oliver turned toward the board again.
"So, is there no way to surpass him?" he said, almost to himself. "If you look at it that way… then no. But that also means something else."
He turned back, eyes sharper now.
"We are actually in a better position."
Mira frowned slightly. "How?"
Oliver stepped forward.
"Because we only have to do one thing—prove that he exists."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"But him? He has to do everything."
His voice lowered.
"He has to plan ahead constantly. Execute flawlessly. Erase every trace. Predict multiple people at once. Stay invisible. Never slip."
A faint smile appeared on his face—cold, analytical.
"No matter how intelligent someone is… that's too much. Even for a monster."
The room remained still.
"But that doesn't mean we relax," he added quickly. "Even if intellect alone can't transcend logic… we cannot underestimate him."
He looked down slightly.
"The real problem is… we don't even know if he exists."
Mira exchanged a glance with Jacob.
"And if all of this is just coincidence…" she said slowly, "then—"
"Mr. X doesn't exist," Jacob finished.
"And Tom is guilty," Mira concluded.
Oliver's fingers tightened slightly.
"Y-yes… but still—we have to—"
He stopped.
Something hit him.
Hard.
A thought—sharp, sudden, and violent—cut through his mind.
His pupils widened.
A chill ran down his spine.
Why Tom?
If the killer truly existed… if he had such control…
Why Frame Tom?
He could have killed both Robert and Tom.
He could have framed—
Me.
It would have been easier.
Cleaner.
Perfect.
The thought slipped from his mind into words before he could stop it.
"Why did he frame Tom in the first place?" Oliver muttered aloud. "If he wanted… he could've killed both. Framed me instead. It would've been much easier…"
Silence.
Mira and Jacob looked at him, confused.
Mira spoke first.
"Because Tom has dementia. That's the key. He weaponized it. That wouldn't work on you."
Oliver froze for a fraction of a second.
Then he forced a smile.
"Y-yeah… you're right."
But the smile was wrong.
Ugly.
Fragile.
Because only he knew the truth.
Or at least… the possibility of it.
He crushed the thought immediately.
No. That's not it.
It's just a mistake. A flaw in Mr. X's plan.
Or maybe… he didn't know.
He forced himself to believe it.
Anything else would be unbearable.
⸻
Oliver turned abruptly and walked to the table, picking up three sheets of paper.
"I know where to find Mr. X."
Mira and Jacob straightened.
"He's most likely connected to Robert's patients. Either directly… or indirectly."
He handed them each a paper.
"And if he's not…" he added quietly, "then either me… or Tom… is the killer."
That line hung in the air like a blade.
Mira felt it more than she expected.
Jacob understood its weight—and chose silence.
Oliver continued, now fully in control again.
"I've narrowed the list down. Forty-five people."
He pointed at the papers.
"We're three. Fifteen each."
He stepped closer.
"Interrogate them. Not casually—treat each one like he is Mr. X."
His tone hardened.
"He won't make obvious mistakes. But people always reveal something."
He paused.
"Tomorrow evening—we regroup. Share everything. Analyze patterns."
His eyes sharpened.
"And by then… we will know the truth."
Mira and Jacob nodded.
"Go," Oliver said.
⸻
They stepped outside.
The air felt colder than before.
Without another word, they separated—each entering their own path, their own uncertainty.
⸻
Two hours later
A quiet street.
A door creaked open.
Mira stepped out of a small house, followed by an old, heavyset woman.
Mira gave a polite nod.
"I apologize for the disturbance."
The woman huffed, muttering something under her breath before shutting the door with clear irritation.
Mira stood there for a moment.
Unpleasant.
Useless.
A waste of time.
She exhaled, then walked to her car.
Sitting inside, she took out the list.
With a pen, she crossed out the woman's name.
No suspicion.
Nothing.
Her eyes moved to the next name.
She paused.
Read it again.
Aisha Ford.
Silence filled the car.
And for some reason…
This time—
It didn't feel like a coincidence.
Chapter Ends
To be Continued